I’m a knitter, spinner, and fearless warrior in the coming Zombie Apocalypse. What can I say? I multi-task...

Sunday, February 25, 2007

On With The Show!

When the story of The Sheep is finally told (and I'm sure it will, albeit in a venue that is off, off, off Broadway, at best) it will feature a show-stopping musical number complete with scantily clad dancers wearing top hats and waving sparklers. The song to which they will tip their hats and shower the audience with sparks will be my own personal theme song: But I Have AnExcuse..."

As is typical of me right before a school vacation week, I made many plans for how I might better my life and residential circumstances during the time away from work. There was to be scouring, sweeping, scrubbing and sanitizing. By week's end, I had all intentions of living in the condominium version of an operating theater. And that's pretty darned clean.

And, as is also typical of me, I did very little of the cleaning. There were a few half-hearted swipes around various household surfaces with damp rags and dust removal products. I think I may have swept once. And I vividly recall swishing some bleachy substance around the toilet bowl, but that could have been a dream. I'm not really sure...

It is always the same: I fritter away the week then spend the Sunday before returning to my life of toil frantically attempting to achieve something vaguely resembling "tidy" while the clock ticks down. But...I have an excuse. Honest. I really do. There are many people in my life who, upon hearing this familiar refrain, will have already begun shaking their heads sadly at this point.

But not you guys. You'll understand. You're cool that way.

I mean, how the heck is one supposed to be attending to the swabbing of the decks when one's spinning mojo has returned? I'm not made of stone, here! When one kicks off their week of vacation with a trip to the vendor room at SPA, what do you think is going to happen??? Am I supposed to return to hearth and home with a bag full of the happiness then set it aside so that I can make the house smell like artificial lemons?

I say, "NO!" There must be spinning. There must be the fondling of the fibers and the sniffing of the yarns. There must be the putting off of the oil change in the truck until the very end of the week just so that the spinning can continue uninterrupted for as long as possible. There shall be a lack of groceries and a certain odor to the unattended litter box. The wheel and the spindle shall reign supreme over all that is domestic and disinfected. So say I and so it be.

Thus, I give you the fruits of my labors over the past week:

From left to right: Shire Blend in progress on the spindle; 2 oz. black lump of spindle spun; 12 oz. of a very soft mystery fiber that awaits the plying.

I may be living in squalor, but I'm OK with that. Clean is overrated. Being exposed to a little of the bacteria can only kick my immune system up a notch. I'll be a healthier Sheep for letting the mold cultures cultivate just a bit longer.

There was a bit 'o the knittin' but not as much as I'd hoped. The sweater that I'd slated for completion this week got a bit sidetracked when it refused to behave and had to be sent to time out for blocking. The collar is now laying flat so it was worth the time spent, but this put me a bit behind schedule. To fill the empty hours, I knit a bit on my latest sock as I'd like to get past the gussets before class on Wednesday. That way I can bring it along and just knit mindlessly in the round while I think of all the other things I'd rather be doing with my life. The drop stitch scarf has had a little growth spurt, but not in a good way. I have somehow managed to add to its width in addition to its length. I blame the garage knitting. Taking it to visit with the mechanics during the oil change on Friday may have been a mistake. How else does one explain the screwing up of the most simple of patterns except to say that the fumes from all the rubber and gasoline were killing off my brain cells?

All in all, though, it was a lovely vacation week and I am currently exploring careers that will allow me to sit at home and knit ever-widening scarves for a living. I think that is my calling, really. Me on the couch, cartoons blaring in the background, cats cavorting in the foreground, fiber everywhere...

I have that same rush to get everything done on Sunday evening. Hated it. But for the past two weekends (I'm only home on weekends) I've taken a new tack. On about Tuesdau I start planning what I will do the instant I get home: start my laundry, go through my mail and deal with it. Somehow the rest of the weekend becomes much more relaxed and guilt-free, although it hasn't necessarily led to more knitting, just more knitblog reading :-)

I think it's wonderful that you are able to put aside the awful chores and focus on your spinning. That's important! It's your creative side calling. You are evidently somewhat free of the creative blocks suffered by others. It's true.

I'm reading Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way" and you'd be surprised what we do simply to keep ourselves blocked from being creative. All those shoulds and ought tos. I find your focus on spinning and knitting to be inspiring. Hurray for the Sheep! :-)

(I live in squalor myself. However, I'm still in the self-beratement stage where I refuse to give in to creativity; instead I sit there and stare at the chaos and berate myself for not doing something about it. Or for not ignoring it to knit. But I'm a WIP. It's OK.)

Could I be a sheep spinning at a wheel in the background? I don't sing, I mean I do, but nobody else should hear it, but I could sit and spin. I hum pretty well, and I'm a great whistler but I know there will be no whistling in The Story of The Sheep. (Sorry if that last part didn't make you cringe.)The blue singles are soo pretty. Do you have plans for the plied yarn?

About Me

I am a forty-something fiber-freak living in the wilds of Maine. My goals in life include: ridding my home of knitting UFOs, inventing an intraveneous coffee drip and growing old to become the crazy cat lady on my street. You know the one: 10-45 cats, nobody ever really gets a good look at her, just that fleeting glimpse as she screams at the neighborhood children to get off her lawn and about whom local legends abound.